


The change from major to minor

by dotfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Men of Letters Headquarters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 18:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's never sure how long Cas will stay, but he's starting to lose his doubts that he'll always return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The change from major to minor

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to tumblr, archived here. Title from Cole Porter. For vhanstiel, who prompted Dean/Cas, the lyric “Sunday morning, rain is falling. Steal some cover, share some skin.”

Dean's never sure how long Cas will stay, but he's starting to lose his doubts that he'll always return. During the times when he's gone, when they're deep into a case, or Dean's got music playing loud, or Sam's geeking out over something he's found in one of the old books, if Kevin or Charlie or Garth are around, it's easier not to listen for the beat of wings. In the quiet moments he catches himself straining to hear them, expecting them, and ignores the ping of disappointment in his stomach if it doesn't happen.

But eventually it does. Sometimes Dean will turn around and Cas will be standing there behind him, in the kitchen, or the library, or the hall outside Dean's room, all of a sudden, like the goddamned Batman. And a lot of the time, if there's no one else around, sometimes even if there is, Castiel's "hello, Dean" is barely out before Dean's stepping forward to cup Cas's face in his hands, to push him against the nearest wall and kiss him while Castiel tugs him roughly closer, as if Dean's the one who left and has returned.

Strange to see Cas with a shotgun in his hands more often than an angel blade, relying more on sigils and salt than on his semi-burned out angel powers. There's still some freaky angel business Cas is mixed up in and he tells Dean about it, confesses, brow furrowed, _I don't know what to do,_ and Dean's hardly an expert on this shit, but he tries to reassure, maybe they can look in the storeroom, maybe there's a dusty scroll somewhere that can help. 

Rare, slow, lazy mornings are the best. A Sunday when Dean wakes to the hot press of Castiel's mouth working its way from Dean's neck, to his jaw, to his mouth, under the rumble of thunder and the sound of the dull, soothing thump of rain on the batcave's roof. Cas's weight against Dean's side, warm skin on warm skin, as if they wake up every day like this, as if Cas is always there. Dean's hands trailing down Castiel's back, his tongue finding the hollow at the base of his throat, the way Dean can make Cas moan and cry out with the smallest shifts of his body, his fingers finding a spot just right. Pale light that shows through the high, small windows, and the flicker of lightning that catches the lines of Castiel's body with shadows. 

Castiel's lips and tongue and hands mark paths on Dean's body, until he's the one moaning and crying out, while Cas murmurs a heady mixture of words against his skin, and some of it's Enochian or some shit, and Dean's too undone to decipher it all, and some are unmistakable in their meaning, _you know I would rather be here, I need you to know that, I would always rather be here,_ and Dean wants to ask, _then why don't you stay,_ and can't.


End file.
